But Tamaryl would not have broken bad news in this manner. “So you have thought of another way.”
“We can leech power from the Shard itself.”
Maru caught his breath. “Can we?”
“I think I can channel it, even if I cannot generate it. I’ll need to infuse a little at a time, what I can create now, storing enough to start the interaction. It should be able to accumulate enough that, with the inherent amplification, it will approximate typical power.”
A typical che’s power, Maru understood. Not the Pairvyn’s. “Will it be enough?”
“We need only a few minutes, and then we should be able to jump before anyone comes to check on the fluctuation, if they even notice.”
Maru nodded. The plan was dangerous, but it was the most likely they’d found thus far. “You haven’t told them yet. Perhaps the White Mage could help infuse—”
“I’ll tell them later,” Tamaryl interrupted, and his soft voice spoke more than his words.
“One more question,” Maru ventured, as much to distract Tamaryl as anything else. “When we reach home—will we heal?”
Tamaryl’s face clouded. “I think so.” Then he looked at Maru with a more hopeful expression. “We find this world’s magic a little more difficult to use. That’s always been the case. When we are in our own atmosphere again, we should find it easier to draw our own power.”
Maru nodded again. He was nim; if he never recovered from the Subduing, his social position would remain unchanged. He would remain crippled, bound to the earth instead of traveling freely, and he would find himself performing manual labor instead of magical tasks, but he would remain what he was.
Tamaryl, on the other hand, could not return without his power. He was already a figure of suspicion, having been condemned and exiled, having returned with a human mage, having demanded release from a long betrothal. He would need careful politicking to regain his stature again even with his restored title. It would happen, of course—Tamaryl was a good Ryuven, and with time the skills which had made him Pairvyn ni’Ai would win him respect once more——but it would take concentrated effort and display of magnificence.
However, if he returned wounded and empty of power, no different than the Subdued, he would be easy prey in Oniwe’aru’s court.
Tamaryl smiled. “Cheer up, Maru. If we’re careful, no one will come until it’s too late to stop us, if at all.”
Maru nodded, unconvinced.
Tamaryl looked at the crystalline chip. “It’s our best hope. A few days more, so that I have enough power stored in the fragment, and we’ll chance it.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
MARLA RUBBED HER HANDS briskly across her arms, trying to warm herself. The afternoon sun helped, though the crisp breeze made her almost wish the trees grew nearer to the road to block the wind.
She was grateful for the cutback, though. The open space prevented easy ambushes, such as that which had snatched away Isen, Luca, and Cole. She shivered and glanced involuntarily over her shoulder, half watching for attack and half wishing irrationally for a glimpse of them.
Luca had shoved her ahead, telling her to run as he turned back. She had seen him reach for a staff, had known he would fight, and then she had run for the trees. When she looked back again, she had seen nothing but wagons—no Luca, no pursuing guard.
It had taken her a while to spot Isen’s body, and she felt guilty for that. No doubt his resistance had helped her own escape, and she had not even seen him fall. She mourned him.
She’d hidden for what seemed a long time, watching what she could of the camp, until the wagons began to move. But she had not seen Luca among the shuffling chained prisoners.
Perhaps he had escaped. She hoped that was true, that he hadn’t died there like Isen. She had not seen his body, she reminded herself. Perhaps he had escaped, and he had not been able to find her.
But he knew where she would go. If he was safe, he would come.
And it was the best place for her. Once at Fhure, she could claim she had returned to her previous position upon her master’s death. Fhure was where she would find her mother, and it was where she might have word of Demario, and it was where she might find Luca if he lived.
So when she had given up waiting in the woods, hiding and hoping to see Luca or Cole returning down the road, she had made her way to the next town. She’d glanced through the slavers’ stables, half-expecting to see familiar faces and at a loss as to what she would do if she did, and when she did not find Luca or Cole, she had asked directions and started on her way. She had no money to buy passage in a caravan, and she now distrusted their offer of safety, anyway. The weather was not as mild as that they had left behind, and she missed the wagon and blankets she’d lost, but there was no choice. She had to press on to Fhure.
There was no leftover fruit to be found along the road, not in winter and within the reach of so many travelers. She approached camps a few times, offering to scrub pots in exchange for a meal. Once or twice she asked bread of kindly-looking strangers—women, she was careful to choose, though that was no guarantee—but for the most part she quelled her hunger with promises of hot, delicious meals when she reached her home. They would welcome her, she would dine well, she would sleep, and then she could begin to think on what had happened. Not yet.
She’d asked again this morning, and this road should lead her directly through the village and to the door of Fhure House. She quickened her pace, folding her cold arms against her growling stomach. She was nearly there. She was nearly there.
A man and dog appeared, guiding five placid sheep. The man nodded in a friendly manner and gestured behind him. “There’s the village just over the hill if you want something to warm yourself.”
“Thank you.” That near! She wanted to run, but her tired legs warned against it.
She slowed as the road climbed, closing her eyes against the winter sun. A young girl drove a flock of geese down the road, and they honked and flapped about Marla’s legs as they passed. She reached the crest of the hill and saw the distant house.
Fresh energy lifted her and she hurried down the hill, her eyes fixed on the hill beyond the village. Voices called to her as she passed through the market, offering dried fruits or woven baskets or warm clothing, but she ignored them and kept on toward the house.
When she reached the door, she rushed inside, looking about her and calling, “Mama! Mama, I’ve come back!” She caught a passing servant by a handful of sleeve. “Where’s Marta?”
“She’s upstairs,” answered the servant, surprised.
“Upstairs?” Marla ran up the steps, ignoring her tired legs, and called as she hurried down the corridor. “Mama!”
Marta whirled out of an open doorway and snatched Marla as she ran. “What—” she gasped. “Dear sweet Holy One...”
“Mama!” Marla threw herself against her mother and held tight, as if they might be torn apart. “Mama, I’m home.”
For a long time she didn’t hear the words her mother was saying, prayers of gratitude and questions and emphatic exclamations. Finally Marta loosened her embrace and moved back to see her daughter. “I’m glad—I’m so glad—but why are you here?”
Marla tried to think through the overwhelming rush of being at last home, at last secure after the awful journey. “I—I was—I came...” She stopped, emotion pressing at her. “Could we have some tea?”
“Of course we can!” Marta hugged her again. “No, better yet, you just answer one question for me and then we’ll find you something warm to eat and a warm bed for a few hours. You look like the road nibbled at you all the way here. But are you here to stay, Marla? Are you staying?”
“Yes, Mama. I’m staying.”
“Oh, thank the Holy One! Now come on, there’ll be bread coming out of the oven about now.”
“Mama.” It had to be asked. “Have you heard anything of Demario?”
Marta’s sympathetic eyes spoke the answer even before she
shook her head.
Marla took a breath and nodded. That was enough for now. “Then, warm bread, please.”
True to her word, Marta was good enough not to ask more questions, and after a meal of fresh bread, sliced pork, and melting cheese, Marla lay down on her mother’s comfortable bed and slept soundly.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
IT SEEMED TO LUCA THAT he even dreamed of sleep, his mind drifting into semi-consciousness as he walked unless Frangit’s sharp voice jarred him to awareness. “Lean into it! Get moving! And you tutor clerk, we aren’t taking you as a sight-seeing passenger. Put your back into it, or I’ll find a switch and remind you where your back is.”
The pain in his head had dulled to a steady, throbbing ache, a weight at his eyes which made him long for the brief rest stops and the glorious moment in the evenings when they halted. Then he lay still, savoring immobility, until their mash and sausage and bread were ready, when he joined the others and ate the bland but filling meal.
Tonight, though, he was only a few bites into his meal when the ginger-haired slave spoke to him. “Give me the sausage, chum.”
Luca paused chewing, surprised. “What?”
“The meat, chum. Give it here.”
Realization penetrated the haze of Luca’s awareness. “No, I don’t think I will.” The other two slaves were already shifting away, shoving their own meals hurriedly into their mouths.
The slave leaned forward, his eyes glittering in the firelight. “Give it over, gimp. Sausage, now.”
Years of conceding drew Luca’s eyes down, made him turn away from the bowl in his hand—and then something in him resisted, and he felt his fingers tighten. He picked up the sausage and took a bite.
The slave moved quickly, snatching the meat and swinging at Luca with the other hand. The blow was clumsy as he pulled the sausage free, and Luca ducked away. The other slaves bolted, and Luca straightened. “Give that—”
The fist caught him across the eyebrow, sending waves of agony rippling through his skull. Luca dropped and clutched at his head, but it did not relent. Someone roared above him and he curled defensively as something struck him.
It never ended, king’s blessed oats, flames, it never ended...
Frangit was yelling, and it hurt Luca’s head. He kept his hands over his ears, his forehead to the grass, cringing.
Benton was speaking to him, Luca realized with a start. He curled his fingers away from his scalp and tried to hear.
“...Scrambled? Can you hear a thing?”
“My lord,” Luca said haltingly. “I...”
“Sit up, can you?” Benton sounded disgusted. “I thought you’d had the sense knocked from you, thought we were out our eight hundred. Frangit! Leave off him, he’s got to pull tomorrow.”
Frangit released the ginger-haired slave with a shake before growling a final revilement and stalking toward the wagon.
Benton sighed. “’Soats, now it’ll be the work of tying you. You’d better be worth the trouble. Nalo, get over by the wheel. Luca, you on the other side. I won’t have you ratting at each other through the night.”
Luca sat up slowly, mindful of his head. “But I didn’t—”
“Don’t argue!” Benton snapped, and Luca flinched with the sound. “You were a part of it, whatever it was, and I can’t afford to let you two damage each other when I need you working. Get over there.”
“Yes, my lord,” Luca whispered.
Frangit fastened Luca’s left wrist cuff to the wagon wheel and walked away, grumbling. Luca slid around the wheel to the shelter of the wagon, leaving his arm awkwardly stretched, and kept his eyes from Nalo on the other side. He lay down and curled as best he could for warmth, cushioning his head on his outstretched arm. Behind him, the other slaves began cleaning up the supper mess, and Luca’s stomach rumbled. Benton and Frangit talked in low voices as they arranged something on the wagon above, making it creak.
Luca turned as best he could and glanced toward the fire. “Anything left?”
One of the slaves shook his head. “Only what was stomped into the ground.”
Luca settled again. At least he was not expected to do more work before sleeping. He was glad he’d gone away to relieve himself before eating; he’d had enough of that while chained to a wagon back with Renner. At least now he could sleep.
“Stupid gimp,” came a harsh whisper. “If you’re not going to pull your share, you can give us your meat, after all.”
Luca didn’t answer.
“I know you hear me. You’d better do your part tomorrow. Too sick to pull your share is too sick to eat your share.”
Luca squeezed his eyes closed. Only a little more, he thought. Only a little more to Alham...
He slept.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
LUCA CLOSED HIS EYES, steadying himself against the crossbar on the rough paving. Near Alham, the weather had cooled so that the slaves didn’t sweat as they worked. He wondered how far it was now.
He wondered what had become of Marla. He wondered how Cole was faring, whether the bandits had sold him to the mines after all once they’d disposed of their other captives.
Something thudded into his arm. “Hey!”
“Nalo!” snapped Frangit’s voice. “I saw that.”
“Make him do his part!” protested the slave. “He’s hardly pulling, like always!”
A little tremor ran through Luca. “That’s not so. I—”
“You’re coasting on us,” Nalo growled. “Half-asleep.”
“That’s just my head—I’m still pulling—”
“He’s right,” Frangit interrupted. “You’re loafing. Benton’s doing as much in the back as you are in the shafts.”
Luca’s breath caught in his throat.
“I didn’t want you anyway, but Benton thought we’d have free labor after selling you. Fat lot he guessed, heh? You lied about pulling before, didn’t you?”
“No, my lord! I did take a tinker’s single all over...”
“Heh. If your tinker didn’t want to get anywhere, maybe.” He turned to the wagon. “Benton! Your clerk is shirking!”
Benton was in the rear, watching the road and occasionally helping to push the wagon. “Well, move him,” came his detached voice.
Frangit took a running stride and swung onto the moving wagon. Luca turned to look as he began to rummage through the packed cargo. Nalo hit him again. “Move it!”
“Nalo!” Frangit turned back and tapped the ginger-haired slave with a switch. “If you have the strength to be jabbing at your mate, you can be making better time yourself. Get to your own work. And you, Luca—your own work, too. You understand?”
“Yes, master.” Nalo was subdued, but his voice held a resentful note.
“Yes, my lord.” Luca clenched the bar and bent his head over it, his pulse quickening. He felt faintly dizzy. He could push harder with a switch at his back, yes—at least for a time.
SHIANAN PAUSED AT THE edge of the trees, keeping in the shade as he stretched and breathed deep. He had run most of his usual route and had only the last stage across the green and back to Fhure House. He bent low, bringing a pleasant pull across his hamstrings, and then set out on the last leg.
He passed a small herd of pigs, nodding at the pig boy who waved. There were several women chattering excitedly at the edge of the green, glancing from the village to the upper house to Shianan jogging toward them. “Your lordship, please tell us?” one called.
He altered his path to near them. “What’s that?”
“The visitors! Who are they? We haven’t seen horses on this road in months. Years!”
Shianan’s chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with his long run. “Visitors? On horses?”
“Yes!” The women were pleased to be the ones to deliver the news. “Yes, your lordship! They came up the road and right through the village, asking if you were at the house. They’re up the hill right now.”
Shianan sprinted, leavin
g the women behind. On horses—it was someone important, someone who knew where to seek him. Septime? King Jerome? No, the king would never come himself. Perhaps Ewan Hazelrig, come to punish the man who’d made unkept promises to his daughter?
Two horses stood in the yard before Fhure House, a cream color and a deep brown. At their heads Shianan recognized Philip, the royal horseman. He was pointing and calling instructions to a couple of servants, arranging water and fodder for his charges.
Horses and Philip meant someone with power. Perhaps the Ryuven had attacked, had raided Alham itself or another city, Septime had taken the army to meet them and someone had come by horse to order Shianan back into duty. Shianan hurried past Philip and went into the house.
Kraden was nowhere to be seen. He was probably in the kitchen, arranging service for the important visitor. Shianan rubbed a sleeve over his face and went into the main hall, ready to organize battle.
Prince Soren was seated at a table, examining his glove. He glanced up at the sound of Shianan’s footstep. “See, I thought I’d find you here.”
“Where are they?” Shianan asked breathlessly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Ryuven! Have they come? Is that why you’ve here? Where are they? How are our defenses?”
Soren shook his head. “I know of no Ryuven attack. I came to find you.”
Shianan was checked. “To find me?”
“Yes. You’d disappeared from Alham, and no one knew where you were. I guessed you might be here.” He gestured to the table and empty chairs. “Come and have a seat. Your steward has promised wine and refreshment.”
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